


I Know Why the Caged Bird Prefers Berlioz

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Philadelphia, Pre-Series, Seasonal, Very Mild Dub-Con, implied Miloe and Mayhem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four ficlets exploring the first year in Philadelphia after Miles leaves. Vague spoilers for 219. | Chapter 2 is rated M, the rest are rated T.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for nbc_revolution's 42 Prompts in 5 Days
> 
> Prompt Word: Silence

I wake in the morning and brush my hair, though there’s no one to see it. I make the bed (cot) and scratch another line on the wall, another day begun. It’s Wednesday, for the record.

I’m a 21st century Robinson Crusoe, keeping track of the days and weeks and months with hash marks in stone (cement), except Crusoe had sunlight and ocean breezes. I have only a candle and five books I’ve read a hundred times each. I’m not stranded either, but captive. It’s a poor analogy; I’ll have to come up with a better one. The Count of Monte Cristo, perhaps, or Alice in Wonderland, down a dank, twisted rabbit hole.

There are no sharp objects in my little basement room (cell.) Bass is probably afraid I’ll hurt myself, now that Miles has abandoned me. I think he’s confused me with himself: Miles abandoned me a long time ago, and I didn’t slash my wrists then. But Bass, he’s hurting everything in his path, including himself. It’s a lousy strategy for revenge.

Though we all know Miles does still care. He’s sentimental that way.

Twice a day, there’s a sharp knock on my door. It’s the guard, with a tray of food, always a glass of wine and a tender cut of venison, beef or chicken, whatever the President himself is eating. Bass insists this confinement isn’t meant to be punishment, only security.

He should try living with himself sometime, see if he considers it punishment.

It’s been two months, one week and four days since Miles failed to shoot Bass when he finally comes to retrieve me from my hovel. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, and breaks the silence I’ve learned to survive in:

“Let me show you to your new room, Rachel.”


	2. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Word: Disaster

If I’m honest in death, my headstone will read: _She Sacrificed the World a Lot._ Believe me, I know what disaster looks like. It looks like burnt out buildings and deserted towns and starving kids.

But there’s another, nastier face of disaster too.

Sometimes disaster is clothes strewn across a floor and lonely bodies tangled in a too-small bed. Sometimes it’s kissing someone in the firelight, tugging on their curls, feeling undone and on the edge when you _should_ be on your guard instead.

There’s snow outside, falling silently in the dark. But inside, I’m warm, too warm, from the heat of the fireplace, from Bass’ arm flung over my waist, even as sweat dries on our skin. Our cold feet rub together under the covers, knees bent and bodies twisted. (I’ll never understand how Miles folded himself into this little antique bed.) Bass shifts behind me, nestling deeper in my shoulder and I trace the tattoo on his arm with a fingertip.

And here I assumed tonight would be one more dull, freezing night, just like all the rest. Just like the night of the Blackout: we knew it was coming, could feel it creeping up on us, but when it struck, we learned a whole new definition of disaster.

Bass and I have been toeing the line of intimacy for months, drinking until the early morning hours and never quite talking about Miles. This was inevitable, no matter how little it was actually about either of us.

Doesn’t make it any less of a disaster. I still let him bury himself inside me, still clung to his shoulders and came when he begged me to. Still wrung him out on my previously crisp sheets, his cock heavy in my hand.

Each of us pretending the other was Miles.


	3. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Word: Caged

The sheer curtains are motionless around me, almost hiding me where I sit in the window seat, a book propped open on my lap and bare feet resting on the blue-green cushions. I watch the street below, watch officers stroll along with hands in their pockets, stable boys ready horses, militia wives herd rampant future militia soldiers and peddlers wander through with their wildflowers, fresh bread or repurposed CD-Rs.

It’s spring; the trees in the park are lush and green, irises and daffodils poking their heads up. I press my hand to the window, the glass cool and impersonal on my skin. I want to walk barefoot through the grass, want to pick flowers for the table and feel the breeze on my bare arms.

Funny, the things you have no idea you’ll miss when you walk willingly into captivity.

There’s Bass now, walking down the steps below me, coming and going from his little pseudo-palace as he pleases. He looks agitated, hands clenching at his sides, but then, he almost always looks agitated these days.

I lift my gaze from his irritable, curly head to glance around my room, the four walls with no evidence of springtime. No sweet-smelling flowers, no freshly picked fruit. It isn’t just seclusion that gets under my skin though, isn’t just being trapped inside with a guard at the door. It’s the knowledge that this room was Miles’.

Bass outwardly clings to the delusion that I’m a well-treated ‘guest’, yet he sequesters me in here, crammed into 800 square feet, alongside decades of memories, both his and mine. I’m just another of the pretty little trinkets that remind him of Miles. Memories don’t get to go outside for walks in the sunshine. They stay neatly locked away, behind a few inches of glass.


	4. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Word: Doorway

I vaguely remember something from my high school US history class about the Continental Congress sweating to death in Independence Hall during a blistering Philadelphia summer. The ‘President’ currently holding court in these brick walls is a far cry from George Washington, but I can commiserate with those all-but-forgotten founding fathers anyway. I’ve never missed air conditioning as much as I do right now: there’s sweat dripping down my back, sticking fine blue silk to my skin, as I press a cold glass of ice water to my forehead.

It’s been three months since Bass darkened my doorway, off on campaign or slaughter or whatever we’re calling his bloody little excursions. But here he is, returned victorious once again, leaning on the doorframe in his bare feet and the cotton trousers they wear in summer. Like he thinks he _belongs_.

I scratch at my notebook, sparing him barely a glance, though I haven’t written anything worth reading since… March? February?

“So I take it I wasn’t missed.” There’s a smirk in his voice as he steps into the room, closing my door behind him with a quiet click. Still, I know Bass: whatever façade he puts on, he’s offended by how little I appear to care about his whereabouts.

“Did you go somewhere?” I inquire dryly, the ice in my glass clattering.

Bass’ smirk slides off his face and he slumps in the chair across from me, graceful, deadly hands dangling off the wooden arms. He plucks at his sweaty undershirt, huffing. “God, it’s miserable in here. Pity we can’t turn the air on.”

“Pity we can’t go outside or open a window. Oh wait. You can.”

“You know how to get what you want, Rachel.” Bass leans forward, arching an eyebrow. “If you’re unhappy with your situation, _change it_.”


End file.
